Lumineux Rhythme
by vieralynn
Summary: Archades 700 O.V. Series: Cid/Venat, Cidolfus found himself matching her rhythms ... Initiation into the poetry of heretic Occurian love. Written for springkink.


_For springkink Jun 5 - FFXII, Cid/Venat: poetry, "He found himself matching her rhythms" (But she was not supposed to die; must fix!) Many thanks to lj user"logistikanyx" for deep discussion and heavy critique of this story. _

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**Lumineux Rhythme**

**Giruvegan, 700 O.V.**

"What are you? What are you, but a voice in my head and the shiver of the wind on my spine? You are naught! You are naught!"

But even after Cid shouted his words, her sound continued to ring between his ears, trilling and sonorous. Nothing of science nor logic could explain the choir of ten thousand women whose voice had merged into one.

She stood with him, just before him, great and mighty and tall: a jeweled idol dressed in little but light; and he knew not if her gleaming image was truly scored upon his retina or if it illusion drawn in synaptic misfirings within his mind. He held his tongue. She remained as he; still.

If she were truly one of those gods recorded upon tattered parchment, he knew how to speak.

"To Giruvegan I have come!"

Her body flashed; his orthodox words felt false.

"To step beyond the edge of time."

Signs of censure; she loomed, large and mighty and menacing.

"To seek—"

What did he still seek here? What sought he in this place where time—

_—breaks down. _

A warning; her voice was the sound of hissing winds above a slender temple flèche.

_You've come…_

"On hope and whim, this place I tread."

_—You've come._

And when her body flashed again, he thought he sensed her rhythm: not as recorded, not as told, not as expected.

No, not at all.

He looked up at her and he thought upon his words.

He thought.

He came to land that men will seldom tread; a land described on page now yellow'd, torn. He came for someone now long lost and gone; folly, for folly, she forever dead. And he, now alone, by night and by day. His science failed her, hollow, empty, cold. He rode a tide of grief, of guilt, of pain; upon this tide, he sought, he searched, he came. He sought a shadow, long forgotten myth. Now before him, a jeweled goddess stood. And never before had he known belief. Not now, he still did not believe—

_—I am._

And she responded; foreign rhythms—

_—Yes._

That word rang out, calling wayward truths home.

And now she spoke: _Time's passage leaves the mark of history's hand. Who guides the learned hand that inks the page? In Giruvegan you'll find what you seek… Or have you found it standing before you?_

"But I came to claim my—"

_—I'll stay with you._

And still she stood, mighty and tall.

Again she flashed.

But had he forgot what face he sought here? What face and loving hands had raised three sons?

Rhythms of gods, rhythms of man collide. She spoke not the rhythm of gods, but men. He understood, but she's not who he sought. To reunite or fade in arms now fey: the truth of why he came, of what he sought.

_Your loss is great, yet I could help it pass. And greater still the loss if you to fade._

And had he come to fade from history's page? Why did he search temple volumes disposed?

Cid looked around and back to the plaza where the grand and heavy gate stood firmly closed. Nothing else stood behind him, around him, before him. Giruvegan. Here the sun's blinding light had no more heat than a faint and distant star, barely visible, hidden. Darkness. Why had he come here?

Why had he come? He sought old gods.

He sought old gods to grant a boon.

In sorrow sought he salve for grief; in grief's shrill pain the madness gripped; in grip of madness folly came; the songs of gods he learned to sing: heretical insanity.

_—Now stop!_

_'Tis not the grip of madness you have found. A heretic you're not, you're just a man._

"A man."

_A man who shows no fear in unknown lands. _

You are not…

_It matters not of who or what I am… Just that you seek your guiding inner muse. 'Tis all you need to see of me. And if in time you come to see me more… In time, it matters not the name I'm called._

"What do I call you then—"

_—Venat—_

"—I see…"

_You see what oftentimes forgotten now: that hist'ry's weave doth need a guiding hand. And man should hold the cord of hist'ry's reins._

"And that is true—

_—Cidolfus, that is true._

Perhaps it mattered not what Venat was. She neither grief nor madness made concrete. Hallucination, holy eidolon; alone she spoke the truth within his heart: Hume hands should string the warp of hist'ry's loom. And he had read of shards once cut from Cryst: Occurian shadow darken'd man's true fate.

To Giruvegan he had come in pain; but pain a memory this goddess fades. For it had faded while he stood with her. And now he thought he might entreat her aid.

"I ask of you to help me set Man free."

_You know the tool that I will help you seek._

"Mercurial Mist to dwell in Man's control."

_May I guide your able hand to new stone?_

"You can pass hist'ry's reins to rightful sons."

_And I shall speak of secrets time has lost._

"With you, the crooked threads shall be set straight"

_With you, those rent from time shall fall from grace._

"Together, Man's ascendance shall be known."

_Cidolfus, never will you be alone._

_Come._


End file.
